


Of Moths and Mica

by lferion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Desert Island, Ficlet, Gen, Talking Animals, Valinor, unlikely friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rocky beginning of an unlikely friendship</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Moths and Mica

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura/pseuds/Laura) in the [MandatoryMinimums](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MandatoryMinimums) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Any fandom: Two characters stuck on a desert island. And that's not even the worst part.
> 
> \--Hopefully I did not stray too far from the intent of the prompt.

* * *

The spire of basalt was an island in an abyss of air, an upthrust rock with sheer sides and no way down but to fall or fly. A pair of Manwë's eagles had brought them here, the most outspoken, curious and hasty member of Nienna's household, and Yavanna's most stubborn. Yavanna had provided them with a tree for shelter, Nienna a small spring of water that would grow bitter with conflict, sweet with concord. 

For a long time, Aiwendil and Olórin sat in frowning silence on opposite sides of their small space, the rumpled expanse of the Pelóri stretching out in misty depths at their their feet, the light shading from pale silver to dim gold as the Trees waxed and waned. Wind rustled quietly in the branches of the tree above them, and distant birds sang to each other in the forested glens below. Varda's stars glittered in the far reaches of the upper air.

Finally, Olórin spoke, flecks of mica stirring under his finger, catching the light. "What were we arguing about?"

Aiwendil tilted his head very like a bird. "Do you know, I can't remember." There was another space of quiet, not nearly as long, not even an hour of Telperion's light. Aiwendil watched the flickers of pale light make patterns in Olórin's hands. It made him think of the silvery-grey moths that danced in the glow of Telperion's bright petals. As if the thought had summoned them, a little cloud of those very moths rose up from over the edge of the spire, to flutter about Aiwendil, their antennae bending this way and that as they spoke to him of the light of the Trees and other things of interest to them.

Olórin's hands had stilled. One of the moths was perched on his thumb, puzzled as to why he was not replying to her news as Aiwendil did. Olórin was looking at her with brows creased. He could hear the moth, but not understand her.

Hesitantly, Aiwendil offered, "Would you like to know their speech? I can teach you, I think."

Olórin's smile transformed his face. "Yes. Yes I would. Thank you." 

His thanks were directed to the moth as much as to Aiwendil. Her tiny feet tickled as she investigated his hand, and she danced in happiness as the lesson progressed. Her friends would be off this silly rock very soon now. 

And thus it was that a lasting friendship was begun between the two unlikely istari.

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Olórin is Gandalf's name from when he was one of Nienna's maiar in Valinor. Aiwendil is Radagast's, one of Yavanna's likewise.
> 
> And that moth is the ever-so-great-ancestor of the ones Gandalf talks to up on Orthanc and while stuck in the burning tree.


End file.
